


Calan Ionor

by ANocturnalCow212



Series: Magical Means for Practical Ends [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Witchy rituals sanctioned by lord of light, porn with some plot but not really, post parentage reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 14:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17920571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: While at Winterfell, Daenerys wants to perform a ritual for healthy harvests and fertility with Jon, but Jon and Sansa are in heat for each other.





	Calan Ionor

Sansa stared across her desk. The figures of Daenerys and Jon on the other side were a blur. Her throat was parched. She gulped to wet her throat and willed away the memories of Jon’s hot breath against her bare skin—in the tent the night before the Battle for Winterfell, then in her bedchambers the night before he left for Dragonstone.

_Not now._

She was ashamed of herself. Jon’s life hung in the balance! How could she let her mind keep returning to such incriminating thoughts? Jon was a Targaryen. A threat to Daenerys’ claim to the throne. If Daenerys discovered his secret, she would kill him. Sansa should have been mulling over the best ways to protect Jon, not fuck him.

_But he’s your cousin now, isn’t he?_ A deviously sweet voice intoned in her ear. _There’s no need to disguise your base acts as magical rituals. You can fuck him freely, without excuses._

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, pleading for her indecent thoughts to leave her be. Tilting her head sideways as though she could tip them all out from her ear, she forced a smile.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said to Daenerys. She dared not meet Jon’s eyes. “The day’s rigors seem to have made me a little headed. You were saying?”

“You work too hard, Lady Stark.” Daenerys flashed her a wide but narrow-eyed smile. “Jon never stops speaking of it. If not for your own sake, look after yourself for your brother’s sake.”

Sansa couldn’t help it. She looked at Jon. He was perched on the edge of his seat, angled away from the desk, one hand clawing into his thigh and the other forearm resting along the edge of her desk. His jaw was taut, eyes dark. His nostrils flared with each exhale. Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. He looked more wolf than man.  

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Daenerys continued, oblivious to the tension brewing across the desk, “tomorrow will mark one year since the start of winter.”

Sansa blinked in surprise. “Calan Ionor,” she realized aloud.

The thirteenth full moon since the Citadel announced winter’s arrival.

But, of course! That explained how brazen the castle’s women had become of late. It explained why men, be they northern, Wildling or Dothraki, threw propriety to the wind and circled around enthusiastic women like vultures. It explained why mothers with unwed daughters had grown increasingly vigilant. It explained why Arya did not stop, let alone care that Sansa had intruded when she’d been locked in a passionate embrace with Gendry behind the armory. It explained why Ser Jaime risked his presence at Winterfell being discovered by Daenerys’ spies just so he could exchange a few harmless jibes with Lady Brienne.  

It was how the gods encouraged man to continue creating life. To continue dreaming of spring. To hope.

This must have been why the faintest whiff of Jon’s warm, smoked-wood scent sent Sansa’s mind reeling.

And perhaps this was why he had withdrawn from her so completely. She had assumed he needed time to process the implications of Bran’s revelation. But perhaps he found solace in Daenerys’s company. Her bed. After all, he was a Targaryen.

“Yes,” Daenerys nodded. “Growing up across the narrow sea, I never had the chance to celebrate it. And given how bleak circumstances are at present, I think it’d do everyone some good to perform the rites.”

Sansa drew a sharp breath. As did Jon.

“We follow the Old Gods,” Jon almost growled. “And they do not call for any rites.”

_Unless rutting is considered a rite._ Sansa bit her tongue.

“Well, it’s quite a common practice in the south,” Daenerys countered. She pulled out a fat roll of scrolls from her white furs.

Sansa recognized the red Myrish lace wound around it. Lady Melisandre had given Jon an identical roll containing instructions for incantations and potions sanctioned by her Lord of Light.

“And it couldn’t hurt to perform a rite for fertility and plentiful harvests,” Daenerys continued. “I am, after all, the Princess that was Promised. And Jon is Warden of the North. We’d be shirking our duty to our subjects if we didn’t perform it.”

Sansa’s chest swelled with indignation. Her eyes prickled at the injustice of it all as if she was a child. “And you will,” she said through gritted teeth, “perform this rite…together?”

“I would hope so.” Daenerys’s mouth pulled up in an exuberant smile. “The Red Lady’s texts say that the fire and the accompanying draught will match flesh with flesh as the Lord of Light commands. But—” she lay her hand over Jon’s clawed fist, “—Jon and I have already lain together, and I can’t imagine the Lord of Light deeming anyone else my equal.”

“I see.” Sansa’s anger simmered to a boil. Under the desk, she entwined her fingers and pressed her palms together to keep her composure in check. She felt Jon’s sweltering gaze on her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Not after _this_. “Your Grace, while I do respect the customs of religions that are not my own, I’m not sure Jon’s bannermen will welcome such a display.”

Daenerys’s eyes shot daggers. “Do correct me if I’m mistaken, but aren’t the bedding ceremonies your people adhere to much the same?”

“Far from it,” Sansa said, curtly. “A bedding ceremony is held for a man and his _wife._ And it ends with undressing the newlyweds. The actual coupling is done in private.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Daenerys,” he said, his voice hoarse from suppressing his agitation, “there are more important matters requiring our attention.”

“Yes, of course,” Daenerys replied with a measured, melodic laugh. To Sansa she said, “The fire will have to be set up outside, of course. And the potion will have to be administered before it. I suspect the rest of the rite will depend on the Lord of Light’s urgency for us to come together.” Her smug gaze bore into Sansa. “Your brother may be sound enough of mind to wait till we return to my chambers, or he may take me there and then.”

Jon sprang to his feet and turned his back to both women. “Are we done?”

“Yes, Jon.” Daenerys straightened her bejeweled wool dress as she rose. “Shall I have Missandei concoct an extra helping of the potion for you, Lady Sansa?”

“Your Grace!” Jon called from the door. “We must be on our way.”

Taking in a stuttering breath, Sansa said, “That won’t be necessary, Your Grace. The old gods make no such demands of their children. I’ll see to the arrangements for tomorrow.”

“Good,” Daenerys said. With a curt nod, she followed Jon out of the study.

The steel in Sansa’s back gave way. She slumped in her seat. A whirlpool of jealousy and yearning churned her insides.

#

When her mind had cleared and the overwhelming lust Jon induced in her had subsided, Sansa summoned Lady Brienne to her study to arrange the necessary precautions for the following evening.

“I can’t stop consenting parties from coupling,” Sansa said, pacing before the roaring fire, “but I won’t risk anyone taking advantage of the vulnerable. Spread word that the doors of the castle main will be open for children, and others who don’t wish to take part in the evening’s activities…and make sure they’re bolted come sundown.”

“Yes, my lady,” Brienne said. She wrinkled her nose. “I always loathed Calan Ionor. For people to lose themselves so completely is a disgrace, not a cause for celebration. It’s downright barbaric.”

“A word I would use to describe a great many things,” Sansa sighed, staring into the flames. “But we need dragons. And if we are to have dragons we must keep their mother happy.”

After a brief silence, Brienne said, “You don’t suppose we should secure Ser Jaime in his rooms tomorrow night? With an actual lock, I mean.”

This pulled Sansa out of her jealous haze. The corner of her mouth pulled up in an amused smirk. She pivoted around to look at her sworn shield whose cheeks now glowed scarlet.

“Lady Brienne, you are ten times the fighter he is,” Sansa teased. “If he is…overcome, surely you can knock him back to his senses. Unless…”

“Unless, my lady?” Brienne asked, feigning innocence.

“Unless, you’re afraid that you actually want him to come to you.”

“Lady Sansa, I would never—”

A knock at the door cut her off. It swung open without Sansa’s permission, revealing a wraith-like Jon. He looked ready to destroy anything and everything in his way. Sansa had not seen him like this since he beat Ramsey’s face into the ground. As frightening as it was to be the recipient of such a glare, Sansa felt her body drowning in a delectably devious warmth that streamed down her belly and pooled between her legs.  

“I need to talk to you,” he said to Sansa rather harshly.

Brienne’s armor clattered as she made to leave.

“No,” Jon said without removing his eyes off of Sansa. Deep creases of strain—no pain—cut across his forehead. “Stay where you are.”

Awkwardly retracing her steps, Brienne resumed her place and went deathly still.

“I don’t want you staying in the lord’s chamber tomorrow.” A slight tremble betrayed the gruff authority in his voice. “Your scent…it’s too strong there and I don’t want anyone getting any ideas.”

From the corner of her eyes, Sansa saw a flummoxed look flash across Brienne’s face.

“Prepare another chamber for yourself,” Jon said. He leaned his weight onto his palm which was still on the door. He looked ready to keel over. “And tell no one where it is. No one except for Brienne, understand?”

Sansa gulped to wet her throat. “The doors to the keep will be bolted at sundown.”

“It won’t matter,” he nearly snarled. “Find yourself another chamber for the night.”

Without another word, he pushed his weight off the door and marched away. Sansa stared after him with her mouth agape.

“Did he really say ‘scent’?” Brienne said incredulously. She shook her head. “He is a fair king, Jon…but sometimes I do worry that all that brooding is going to make him ill.”

#

A great bonfire was lit in the courtyard at sundown the next evening. Many had grumbled about the waste of precious firewood, but most were too powerless under nature’s command to care. They welcomed the hope of new life, the merry warmth of the fire, the ale that was passed about, and the modest feast that could be spared for the occasion.

Under the cover of darkness, Sansa watched the proceedings with Brienne from the walkway overlooking the courtyard. The sight of Jon and Daenerys standing shoulder to shoulder before the fire, looking every bit a king and his queen, wrenched her heart in two. Still, her jealousy was no match for her desire—no, need—for Jon. To have him inside her again. Feel him moving against her. Hear his desperate pants against her neck as he neared his peak.

Missandei handed Daenerys a bejeweled goblet. She raised it to her lips, then passed it to Jon to do the same.

Sansa didn’t know what to expect next. Did she expect Jon to strip Daenerys from the waist down and take her there in the muddy snow for all to see? Would he grab her by the hand and drag her indoors before taking her up against a wall in some dark alcove? Common sense told her to look away. She didn’t need the sight of them coupling seared into her memory. But common sense had no clout, even on her, on this night.

As fortune had it, Jon did none of those things. He simply handed the goblet back to Missandei with a nod, folded his arms behind his back and made idle conversation with Ser Davos, Tormund and Ser Jorah. Daenerys looked from him to the fire, confused. Unnerved by the couples coming together around her, she drew herself up to her full height and searched the flames for something—further instructions, perhaps. The Hound seemed to be doing the same a few paces away.

“We should get inside,” Brienne said, tightening her grip around Oathkeeper’s hilt. “You shouldn’t have to look upon such obscenity.”

“Why?” Sansa returned her attention to Jon and drew a sharp breath as the familiar, agonizing warmth surged through her. “Even proper ladies like myself have certain…urges.”

Brienne cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “You have orders from your king, my lady.”

“No one can see us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Brienne snapped. “Sandor Clegane has looked up this way twice. And don’t get me started on that boorish wilding fellow. I’m starting to think His Grace was right about your scent being too strong.”

Below, Jon approached Daenerys and bowed his head to her ear to whisper something. Sansa stumbled away from the guardrail.

“You’re right,” she choked. “We should go inside.”

They checked on the children and unwed maidens on the way to her temporary chambers for the night. Arya was nowhere to be seen. Sansa had no doubt that she was cooped up someplace remote with Gendry. Though she was glad her sister had someone to share the night with, Sansa couldn’t help being jealous. Would no one ever want her that way? Was her title going to be her greatest and only worth?

#

Sansa had decided to spend the night in the nursemaid’s chamber adjoining the old nursery. Brienne was to remain guard in the nursery, but Sansa took one look at her flushed features and decided to dismiss her.

“Go to him,” she said, not as a lady but as a friend. “To Ser Jaime.” It was unfair enough that she had to be alone. She would not impose the same misery on Brienne.

“My lady, it’s not like that.”

Sansa challenged her with a pointed look.

“Besides,” Brienne said, shaking her head, “I can’t leave you unattended. Not _tonight_ of all nights.”

“The keep is secure,” Sansa said firmly. “And this place smells so strongly of must, I can likely go unfound for years.”

Brienne drew a deep breath. Her resolve waned with her exhale. After a long silence, she nodded to herself and said, “Will you go inside and lock the door?”

“I doubt that’ll be necessary,” Sansa chuckled.

“Well, I’ll just stay at my post, then.” Restlessness seeped from every pore of Brienne’s body.

Jerking her head back in amusement, Sansa backed herself into the cramped chamber and locked the door. Brienne’s large shadow poured over the stone floor through a gap under the door. It lingered there a few long moments, before receding and disappearing altogether.

#

The fire in the nursemaid’s chamber had not been fed in some time, but it was still too hot. Sansa changed into a thin shift and dabbed a cool, wet cloth along her bare skin. How she wished that stretch of skin was being kissed instead. She and Jon had never done that—kissed. Even though they had joined their bodies in the most intimate way, and seen each other at their most vulnerable. A kiss would have changed everything. It would have meant they’d coupled not out of necessity, but out of desire; that they were lovers.

_He’s kissing his real lover now._

In her mind, Sansa knew she should have been repulsed. Angry even. But her body screamed with want for him. She ached all over, felt as though a hundred wildfires raged through her bloodstream.

Unable to fight her needs any longer, she climbed into bed, and gently kneaded her breasts. Her thighs rubbed together as her thumbs traced her nipples and flicked them with a feather-light touch. Imagining her hand to be Jon’s, she slowly slid it down her stomach and drew gentle circles on the soft, sensitive skin under her navel. The thought of Jon growing aroused at the sight of her urged her on. She parted her legs. The inside of her thighs were slick and shining with her arousal. She cupped her mound and pressed the heel of her palm into her nub of pleasure.

A scratching _thud_ sounded at the door. Sansa froze. The door jerked in its frame once. Then again.  

A cold shock swept over her sweat-drenched skin. She propped herself up on her forearms. Her heart pounded against her ribs. There was a shadow spilling in through the gap under the door. It tipped from one side of to the other, back and forth, accompanied by the soft pads of bare feet.

It wasn’t Brienne. Good thing the door was locked.

Sansa felt a desperate, unexplainable tug at her core to open the door. Quaking with fear and exhilaration in equal measure, she slid off the bed and tip toed across the chamber. Her breaths grew shallow. She flattened her hands and rested her forehead on the wood, waiting for her better judgement to retake the reins.

The shadow receded.

_To hell with better judgement._

She unbolted the door and swung it open, bracing herself for whatever gruesome fate waited for her on the other side.

But fate was kind. It had just delivered her Jon.

“No,” he said in a low growl. He shut his eyes and clenched his fists. “Go back inside.”

Sansa shuddered at the pain racking his body as he uttered the words. Soaked in sweat, he wore nothing but his linen tunic. His frame quivered from the strain of angling himself away from her. Warring reflexes made the muscles up his bare legs bulge.

“Jon…”

A hoarse roar ripped through his chest. His shoulders rounded like those of a predator on the prowl. “Sansa, please,” he said, wincing. “Lock the door. I can’t fight it much longer.”

Eyes rounding in shock, Sansa stammered, “You…a-and me?”

“I thought if you changed rooms, I’d be able to get through the night.” The words were barely audible. He struggled to steady his balance. “But the potion…It’s clouding everything. Please, lock the door. I don’t think I can take it much longer.”

The heady elation coursing through Sansa a mere moment ago evaporated. She made to take a step towards him. “Why are you fighting it?”

“Sansa, for once, just listen to me!”

Sansa went to him anyway. She implored him to look at her with a brush of her knuckle against his cheek. He hissed as relief unraveled the knot between his brows. But he still refused to oblige her.

“Is it because of me?” she asked, eyes welling with tears. Whether from heartbreak or denied release, she could not say. “Did you wish it was her? Daenerys, I mean.”

“Sansa,” Jon snarled. He grabbed her by the shoulders and locked his dark eyes on hers. The ferocity in them melted the strength from her legs. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve only seen one face as my lady wife. As the mother of my children.” He gave her a slight shake. “You.”

His grip on her tightened as he drew her close enough for her to feel his scorching breath against her face and his arousal against her stomach. “I’ve fought it so long, it’s eating me alive. I thought of you when I played at lords and castles with Robb and the others. When I lay with a wildling girl kissed by fire, I thought of you. And when I…when I went to Daenerys’ bed to secure her dragons, I wished I was back in that tent with you. I wish I’d performed a hundred of the Red Woman’s rites with you just so I could feel you cum around me again and again.”  

Warm arousal trickled down the inside of Sansa’s thighs. She snaked her arms around Jon’s neck and pressed herself flush against his body, ghosting her lips over his. “We’re both here now. Together. You can have me now, as many times as you need. All night if nature will have it.”

He gave her waist a squeeze in a feeble attempt to make her stop. “I can’t.”

“You’d deny me of my natural right?”

“Sansa,” he begged. He cradled her head to secure her gaze. “If we do this…the bond…its ramifications—they’ll be permanent.”

“Let them be,” she said defiantly. “I don’t care.”

“And if you marry another?”

“I won’t.”

“Sansa,” Jon huffed. He looked away. “You’re not thinking.”

“There’s no one I want except you, Jon.” Sansa nuzzled into the crook of his neck and breathed him in. Peppering kisses onto the sensitive skin, she grew bold and swirled her tongue against it. “I’ll give you my love,” she said in between sucks. “My body. My loyalty. I’ll give you true-born children. The Stark name. Winterfell. I can give you everything your heart has ever desired. Just…please don’t deny me tonight.”

“Sansa, I’m…I’m…I’m your—”

“You’re my cousin. A Targaryen. And when this is all over you will be my lord husband.”

Jon dug his hand into the small of her back. “You’re certain?”

“I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.”

“Sansa…” His eyes roved her face for the slightest sign of doubt.

She offered her lips up to him, batted her lashes for him to claim what was his. He licked his lips before lowering them to hers. Something deep inside Sansa snapped at the tentative contact, transforming their hesitance and misgiving into something animalistic that was far beyond either of their control. She wanted to be consumed in the fire he waged as much as she wanted to engulf him in hers.

Desperate to be closer, to become one, she hoisted herself up and wrapped her legs around his waist. Distracted by joined mouths and roaming hands, Jon stumbled over to the nearest wall and propped her up against it. His tunic was slick with her juices where they were joined, perfectly molding itself around his cock. He growled an annoyed, “Fuck!” when it nearly slipped inside her, fabric and all.

Reaching down between them, Sansa raised the hem of his tunic and stroked the length of his shaft. She had begun pressing its head into her pussy when her eyes fell on the nursery’s open door.

“No,” she panted. “Not here.”

Jon was too far gone to register what she said. He thrust into her, eliciting a sound that was part gasp, part moan.

“Jon,” she mewled. Grasping for her last scrap of control, she shoved him off of her and untangled herself from him. Before guilt and shame could weasel their way into Jon’s conscience, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him into the nursemaid’s chamber.

“Shut the door,” she ordered, pulling off her shift.

Jon obeyed. Discarding his tunic, he stalked towards her, eyes lidded with savage entitlement. “This won’t be like the other times,” he said darkly. “I don’t know if I can be gentle.”

The pit of Sansa’s stomach fluttered. “I know you won’t.” She held his gaze as she neared the bed. Then, she climbed onto it on all fours, curving her back as she presented her rear to him. “But I trust you.”

Sansa thought she would die from anticipation as she listened for the pads of his approaching steps. She could have cried as his calloused hands swept her hair over her shoulders and ran down her back to part the cheeks of her ass. The exalted cry she uttered when Jon sheathed all of himself inside her was loud enough for all of Winterfell to hear. But she didn’t care. She was finally whole.

Jon’s guttural grunts, the wet noises of him slapping into her again and again were all music to her ears. Crying out in breathless spurts, she wiggled her ass at the hilt to get him to quicken his pace. He obliged her. The quick sweeps of his cock against her inner wall lit enough sparks in her to start a fire.

“Fuck, Sansa,” Jon moaned, raking the pads of his fingers across her damp back, kneading her ass. His engorged cock pulsed with impending release. “Fuck.”

He spread her legs wider and climbed onto the bed so he could drape himself over her. His teeth scraped along the curve of her neck as his deft fingers found the nub at the apex of her legs.

“Jon!” Sansa nearly sobbed from the cruel sweetness. “ _Aangh_ , like that. Don’t stop.”

His next strokes were slow. Precise as they were sharp. Sansa’s arms almost gave way.

“I can almost see it,” Jon panted into her ear, his thrusts relentless. “The babes you’ll give me. Winterfell in the spring.”

Sansa’s vision glowed many a shade of red. But through it she saw what he did. She saw herself big with child; Jon with an ear to her stomach, whispering promises of protection and love to their unborn child. It was a wish she had never dared spoken aloud. But now she was that much closer to realizing it.

Her mouth rounded in ecstasy-induced prayer, Sansa surrendered to the fire. Its brilliant and tremulous tides consumed her. Her muscles gave way. Jon bit into her shoulder and quaked around her, filling her with his seed. She relished the weight of him on top of her as they both came down from their highs. When he made to roll off, she whined in protest and caught hold of his shoulder to keep him place. If only for a moment longer.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly as he finally rolled off. The effect of the potion and the night at large had exhausted him enough to keep shame at bay, but his concern for her held strong.

“I am,” Sansa smiled. “And you?”

“Mm.” He returned the smile. His handsome face was free of the tensed lines that had taken it prisoner.

“I’m glad it was you,” Sansa said, brushing a stray curl from his face and caressing his cheek. “Old or new, I’m glad the gods chose you for me.”

A boyish smile graced his lips. His eyes grew heavy and he drifted to sleep.

Sansa admired him a while before yielding to exhaustion herself. When Jon woke her up with kisses after some time, he was gentler, but no less desperate to be one with her.


End file.
